


Overheard.

by entanglednow



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-03
Updated: 2009-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:06:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a curious interest, nothing more, an instinctual need...it isn't jealousy, or envy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overheard.

Peter and Mohinder are not loud, pressed together in the sheets, bare skin sliding on bare skin. Three floors up and two walls back. They're quiet and intent, dragging each other closer, nails pushed into flesh, mouths open and wet and crushed together. Barely breaking for breath and never for words.

Sylar can hear every second of it. Every soft noise is magnified a thousand times.

He's still as death on the street below, head tipped back against the rough alley wall, breathing cold night air, quietly stunned at how every sound is still intense, still fierce.

He can hear the drag of fingers through hair; the wet hard sounds of kisses, and every single breath has a different tone, a different shade of need. Everything else is drowned out by those barely audible sounds.

He knows the exact moment they press close, the slide-hitch of skin on skin. He knows when they press closer still. Peter's inhale is a quick, rough sound that tangles need and discomfort together, until there is something new in their place. It's something that aches quietly, then stabs deep and relentless, and Sylar knows he's the only one who can hear it.

He refuses to touch himself, refuses that sliver of lost control, that long shuddering moment of weakness.

But living with it seems a weakness of its own, and neither Mohinder nor Peter are as restrained, both driving for release, every catch and push harder, deeper, louder.

Their's is a weakness he knows he should exploit, should take advantage of. But he can't move, can't pull himself away from the cold press of bricks and the ebb of sound that's frozen him in place.

It's their own flavour of wet conflict, only this one will not end in blood and violence, and no one will be left alone afterwards.

It's a curious interest, nothing more, an instinctual need...it isn't jealousy, or envy..

 _"Telling yourself that won't make it true,"_ Peter tells him.

Sylar grits his teeth against the rush of instinctive anger.

Though he realises logically that Peter cannot be there. No matter what powers he steals. Peter is never so flat and cold as he is when he's inside Sylar's own head.

But ignoring Peter has never worked before, why should it now.

He turns his head, just a fraction, just far enough to see something that isn't so much Peter Petrelli as some mockery of his edges. In the darkness to the left of him, everything in shadow save for the pale crooked slash of his mouth and the edge of his nose.

Sylar knows he's not real, so he ignores him.

Wanting something, wanting something for no purpose, for some soft emotion that never stays long enough to feel really yours, it's a weakness. Let Peter and Mohinder waste themselves in each other's flawed perfection. Sylar has more important concerns.

 _"Is that what you really think it is, a waste?"_ The voice is far too real, the taste of the words left to hang in the air, the way Peter's hair clings coldly to the brick beside him. He's nothing but a shift of cloth against the world and a prickle of sound to his senses, he's nothing Sylar tells himself.

But Peter's smile is just a fraction too wide and too sharp. There's a bristle of anger under Sylar's certainty that the thing is not Petrelli.

There's a soft laugh, drifting into mocking too easily to do anything but infuriate.

Sylar turns away again, refuses to look at him. He refuses to acknowledge his existence, or his non-existence.

 _"You're insane you know,"_ Peter tells him. _"But it's not your fault, it's a flaw in your design."_

Sylar throws an arm out, grabs for the throat that's no longer there.

The wall beside him is cold and flat.

The noises above are drowned out by the sound of his own angry pulse, of the hush-rustle of leaves and the roar of traffic.

Everything is a brutal jumbled mess of sound

Between one moment and the next Sylar stops listening, he blocks it all out. Let's it fall out of focus, tries to regain some sense of control, some sort of distance.

But he can do nothing but lean against the wall, breathing impossibly loud over the roar of his own blood.


End file.
